


perfidy

by Anonymous



Series: unrelated nsfw fics [4]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Cheating, Infidelity, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Self Slut Shaming, Shame, hes tipsy, im sorry i was sad last night, in a sexy and not sexy way, not rly in a sexy way, oh they have kids but theyre only mentioned, one mention of a bloody nose at the end, slight noncon due to intoxicated consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 16:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: (“Who said it’d be a mattress?”“I did,” Chan says, petulantly.And Minho throws his head back and laughs. “You’re so goddamn prissy.”)all this, and he still wont take off his wedding ring.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know, chan/momo
Series: unrelated nsfw fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198034
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	perfidy

**Author's Note:**

> YEAH IM SORRY I WAS V SAD LAST NIGHT AND NOT SAD ENOUGH THIS MORNING TO EDIT 
> 
> mind tags. 
> 
> No Happy Endings Here

Chan wakes to a pillow in his face. 

“Wh--Momo, why--”

“It’s five in the goddamn evening,” Momo says, angry. “You were supposed to pick the kids up from sunday school, I was  _ working, _ Channie! I had to leave work to pick up our kids because  _ you _ overslept!” She’s still in scrubs, Chan sees, now that he’s more awake. And she’s right. It’s 5pm. 

He groans, scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, babe, I--”

“Where were you last night?”

His lower back twinges. He winces. “I told you, I went out with Jisung and Changbin--”

“BULLSHIT!”

He gapes at her, unused to her yelling. “Wh--”

“Changbin and Jisung were both with  _ me, _ planning a fucking surprise birthday party for  _ you. _ Where the fuck were you last night?”

Oh, fuck. He’s wide awake now. “I--”

“You’re cheating with Sana.”

“I’m  _ not-- _ I’m not cheating with Sana.” 

“Then what are you doing!”

“I’M NOT FUCKING OTHER WOMEN!” He roars, and she recoils, eyes wide, breath shaking--he stumbles back. “I’m not… I’m… I’m sorry, Momo--”

“Get out,” she says, quiet, voice quivering with something. Something. “Get out, Chan.”

-

He goes where he usually does. He’s not sure what he’ll do, when the bar closes, but for now, it’s enough. To be here, in a barstool more familiar than his own goddamn bed, staring the bottom of a shot glass right in the eyes. 

“Hey, stranger.” 

He looks up. “...Hi.”

The man takes that as permission, slides into the stool next to him. “You don’t look great.”

Chan snorts. “Thanks, man. Cheers.” 

“i mean it. Can I call you a cab, or…? Get you some water? Food?”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just.” He waves the glass, vaguely. “Coping.”

The man hums. “As we do.”

Chan sets his glass down, extends a hand. “Chan.”

“Minho.” The man takes it. “This isn’t really a ‘coping’ bar. What brings you here?”

“Isn’t every bar a coping bar?” That’s just sad. Save it, Chan. “I come here on Saturdays. Had nowhere to go tonight and ended up back here.”

Here, being one of the more discrete gay bars in the city. Minho’s right, it’s very much a party, not quite wallowing in misery. Men he’d usually attract are avoiding him like the plague, like he has some nasty party pooper aura they can smell. 

Except Minho. 

He carries himself well. Even slouched on the barstool he exudes confidence, as he should. Big Dick Energy, as Jisung would probably say. Leather pants hug his thighs. Chan can very much see the muscle. He wonders if Minho could pick him up, fuck him against a wall. 

Probably. 

“What about you?” He finds himself asking, nailed to the chair by Minho’s half-lidded appraisal. “Come here often?”

Minho barks a laugh. “You could say that. I’m here with my supposed best friend, but he ditched me to grind on his coworker.”

“Unfortunate,” Chan says. “Seems like we’re both coping with things.”

“You more than me.”

Ouch. True, but ouch. “You’re saying that image won’t haunt you?”

Minho grimaces. “I’ve seen it too often for it to affect me anymore.”

Chan nods, distracted. “Do you wanna… get out of here?”

Minho glances down at his hand, then back up. “I don’t do complicated. Not even for hookups.”

“It’s over,” Chan says, but makes no move to take it off. “She caught me cheating.”

Minho huffs, amused. “And you go right back out and do it again, huh?”

“It's not cheating anymore,” Chan points out. He downs the rest of his cup, raises an eyebrow. “That un-complicated enough for you, or do I need to find someone else to fuck me into a mattress tonight?”

“Who said it’d be a mattress?”

“I did,” Chan says, petulantly. 

And Minho throws his head back and laughs. “You’re so goddamn prissy.”

Chan makes to stand, but Minho’s hand lands heavy on his thigh, pushes him right back down. Chan wobbles on the way, catches himself on Minho’s arm. Their eyes meet. Chan exhales harshly, air knocked out of him by that look. Bottomless. 

“Did I say you could leave?”

Chan gets a full body shudder at that, relaxing back into the stool, waving the bartender over for one more shot of tequila and to close his tab, trying his best to pretend his dick hadn’t twitched at the command in Minho’s voice. “Do I need your permission?”

“You do, if you’d like to meet my mattress.” 

It’s cheesy, almost. Chan swigs the tequila, slams the glass down. “You called me prissy.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Challenging. Minho’s hand tightens on his thigh, and he’d forgotten it was there--his legs try to twitch closed but Minho’s thumb digs into the muscle, pushes them back open. “You insult everyone you fuck?”

“I’m not fucking you yet,” Minho says, but it’s teasing, a grin threatens to ruin his cold facade. Chan wants to lick it. 

“Okay,” Chan says, once he’s pocketed his card. “Taxi?”

-

Minho calls an Uber. 

The ride isn’t too awkward, they both keep their relative distance. Other than Minho’s hand, which found its way back to Chan’s thigh once they’d settled in, they don’t give a sign of what they’re doing. The club stench clings to them, anyway. The Uber driver probably knows. Chan wonders if he’s wondering what they look like together. Chan wonders if he has a girlfriend. Maybe he’s a better boyfriend than Chan ever was, won’t look twice as pretty boys, won’t picture Minho fucking Chan over a desk like he’s a slut. 

Which he is. But that’s. That’s beside the point. 

“Is this punishment?” Minho asks, halfway up the elevator. It stops at floor 9 and a giggling couple gets on, but Minho pays them no mind. “For what you did. Are you punishing yourself?”

Chan shrugs. “Maybe.”

They manage to keep off each other until they get inside, Minho barely locks the door before slamming Chan into it, cradling the back of his head so he doesn’t hit it but pushing, still, kissing with a fervor, knee between Chan’s legs and oh gosh his thighs--

Chan moans, grinding down, feeling the flex when Minho meets him. When Minho pulls away Chan’s left with spit-sticky lips and glassy eyes, and when Minho nuzzles into his neck he bares it, lets him mark his territory for the night. 

“She know you like men?”

“No.”

“How’d she catch you cheating, then?”

“Told her I was with friends. The friends were with her.”

“And you didn’t argue?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?”

“I like the tortured ones,” Minho says, and there’s that grin again, peeking around corners. Like the sun at the very beginning of a sunrise. “Makes things interesting.”

“Freak,” Chan says, but he doesn’t mean it. 

“Cheat,” Minho says, but he does. 

Minho wants him on his stomach, but he wants to stay on his back. They compromise, kind of, and Minho makes Chan hold his legs up to his ears, wincing at the stretch, while Minho giggles at him, like seeing him struggle is funny. Who knows, maybe it is, to him. Chan wouldn’t know. 

Minho’s average, smaller than most cocks he’d go for on a club night, but he was intoxicating enough without Chan feeling him out for size, and Chan doesn’t think he’ll be disappointed. Minho drops his pants on a chair instead of the floor, picks lube and a condom off the bed foot’s futon, climbs back up to him in an unsexy move he somehow manages to make sexy. He presses a hand to Chan’s stomach, rubs the other over his hole. 

Chan would usually prep himself, go out with a toy. He’s too impatient to wait. But he hadn’t planned today. He was unprepared. 

Still loose from last night, though. Minho makes a noise when his finger’s just. Sucked in. Welcomed. Chan whines in a little bit of shame. Hides his face behind his knee, because it’s there. Minho doesn’t tease him, though. Just adds another finger. And another. 

Condom, lube. Methodical. What if he’d stopped? What if he’d stopped before he started, never entered the bar, pretended to like women for the rest of his life? He loves Momo, but not like she loves him. Not like he should love her. 

Minho presses in, and Chan takes it, moans, feels, finally, complete. And he knows he could never have stopped, he’s a slut at heart. Empty unless filled with cock. It’s all he’s good for, at this point--Minho’s pleasure. 

“Move,” Chan grunts, when Minho doesn’t seem inclined to. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to hurt you--” Uncertainty, counter to his demeanor before. Why did Chan have to pick one with decency?

“Please.”

“...Okay.”

He was right, about the lack of disappointment. Minho’s good with his hips, precise, seeks out Chan’s prostate and nails it every time, until Chan’s crying from it, and Minho’s biting his collarbone, trailing down to his nipples, laving attention there with his tongue, biting lightly and making Chan cry out, wishing he could pull him closer, but his arms are occupied holding his legs and his legs are occupied being held. 

“You fuck her like this?”

It’s so unexpected, he cums. Untouched, just like that, just from the guilt. Humiliation, shame. His ears are probably red by now, and he sniffs, glad he was already crying so he doesn’t have to pretend he’s not. 

Minho keeps fucking him, punishing pace, chasing his own release. Chan tightens around him obligingly and he tumbles off the edge with a groan, riding it out and slowing to a stop. 

He pulls out, ties the condom. 

Without his hands on him, Chan feels bereft. If he closes his eyes he can still imagine Minho’s hands on his thighs, hips to his ass. Comfort, kind of. The closest to a hug he’s gotten in a while. 

Chan breathes, heavy with spit and snot, and tries to will himself to move. 

“Stay the night,” Minho says, in a probably uncharacteristic gesture of sympathy. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you.”

He has Changbin and Jisung, technically, but going to either of them now would just look bad. For him or for his marriage or for everything, in general. He doesn’t want to explain it, not when he hurt Momo, and he doesn’t know any of their opinions on gayness anyway. So, no. He has nowhere to go. 

“Stay the night,” Minho repeats. He gently wipes the tears off Chan’s face with a thumb, hands him a tissue to blow his nose. “You can figure it out in the morning.”

-

Coffee. 

It’s a good smell to wake to, but he already knows before he opens his eyes that he isn’t home. He turns on his phone for the first time since he left, and waits for it to load, and when it does he isn’t surprised at the barrage of messages--angry. All of them angry.  _ How could he.  _

He finds a tshirt and sweatpants on the foot of the bed, a note,  _ you can have them, they’re old. _ His own clothes are on the floor at the entrance, he’d assume. 

He intends to leave, when he walks downstairs. Walk out and not look back, because this was just a hookup and he never stays the night, doesn’t want to think too hard about what morning means, but. 

“Thank you--” he starts, and stops when the two people-- _ two _ people in the kitchen turn. 

“This is my friend, the one I mentioned last night,” Minho says, hastily. “He dropped by unannounced--”

Jisung takes in his appearance, the hair, the hickeys, the limp. Minho’s shirt, Minho’s pants. 

(Momo’s his friend, too.) 

“Please tell me you have a good explanation for this.”

“I--”

“Chan,” Jisung says. Imploring. Already angry. He’s quick to the draw. Chan would almost rather Changbin--at least he’d let him talk before he punched him. 

“I don’t--”

Pain in his nose, he can’t see, can’t breathe--Jisung’s gone, the door slammed, and Minho tries to help him up. “You know Jisung?”

“He’s my friend,” Chan says thickly. “Was. My friend.”

“Small world.”

“Yeah,” Chan says, as if he isn’t crumbing to pieces. 

Blood drips down from his nose, onto the white tile floor. 

He wonders if it’ll stain. 

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmmmmmmrip
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/chnbnsvng)   
>  [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chnbnsvng)


End file.
